


The Game Within The Game

by quantumhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Anaheim Ducks, Blow Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Nashville Predators, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumhearts/pseuds/quantumhearts
Summary: “Still trying to figure this out, bro. I’ll forget the weird stalker vibes you’re giving me by just showing up at my house, for now, but what’s with the goodwill? I feel like there’s gotta be a — what do you call it —”“Ulterior motive?”“Yeah,” Johansen said. “That.”——The Ryvalry comes to a head. Pun intended.





	The Game Within The Game

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this aaallll the way back in May 2017 when Nashville eliminated Anaheim, and decided randomly that right now was the time to clean it up and post it. For those who don’t remember, RyJo went down with a leg injury in game 4 and was out for the remainder of the playoffs.
> 
> Anyone who watched that series knows the inspiration. You could watch the [silly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hl8IGlUmGuQ) [videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xL324KRBUWE), or just enjoy this [gif](https://gfycat.com/EverlastingNervousCowbird), which I think sums all of it up nicely. 
> 
> Also. I don’t know much about Nashville as a city or where RyJo lives or anything about that. It’s all made up!

Kes had never been to this area of Nashville before. It was an engineered neighbourhood, immaculate sidewalks, identical trees of identical heights with identical space in between. Cookie-cutter condo low-rises. He knew, because he was a nosy, intrusive fuck, that Johansen lived in one of these.

 

A Piggly Wiggly supermarket and an upscale liquor depot. And a boutiquey-looking little florist in the same strip mall, which Kes had found on his phone. It was here that that he stopped for a big bouquet of hydrangea, spray rose and lilac. That’s what the tag said, anyway. It was $55. 

 

“Someone’s a lucky lady,” said the 60-something woman behind the counter as she wrapped up his flowers. The southern twang never got any less delightful. 

 

“I don’t know about that,” said Kes, swiping his Amex. 

 

“Receipt?” she offered, with a pleasant smile. 

 

“Hah,” he said. “Don’t think I can write this one off.” 

 

Back out into the blazing sun, he checked his phone again for directions to the condo on Acklen Park Drive. It was a fifteen minute walk. 

 

The residential neighbourhood reminded him of the suburb in Anaheim where he now lived in what would likely be called a mansion, new construction, stone façade, three-and-a-half bath, outdoor pool. His yard looked like his neighbour’s yard, and his fence looked like his neighbour’s fence. What it did not remind him of was his home for many years in Kitsilano, built in the twenties, with the creaky front porch that never sat level, and the ancient trellis with the wreath of wisteria. BC, a place that had been his home for a long time, a place that his quarry today called home, too. 

 

His reminiscences took him all the way to the address he was looking for and past it, and he had to double back. He checked his text message from his old teammate Weber again as a reference: Unit 3B. _Bless his heart, and his photographic memory_ , Kes thought to himself. And then, _Uh oh, the Southerners are rubbing off on me_. 

 

No doorman, he noted. This would be even easier than he thought. He pushed the buzzer. 

 

A couple of trills, then his voice: it was definitely his voice, right? 

 

“Hello?”

 

“I’ve got a delivery of some flowers for a Mr. Johansen.” 

 

“Uhh …”— a crackling pause, then — “Sure, okay. Come on up.” 

 

Kes took a moment to admire the construction around him. A glass-walled foyer rose the full three storeys of the building around a spiral staircase. There was a little waterfall framed by a cascade of ivy and Boston fern. These were multi-million dollar units, even on the Nashville market. 

 

_Good_ , he thought. _If I’m going to be embarrassing myself, I might as well do it in the lap of luxury._

 

Once he’d found 3B he rapped on the door and, not unexpectedly, Johansen did not answer right away. Poor guy was still getting used to navigating his crutches. 

 

After a few moments the door swung open. Kes was beaming, his arms full of blue and purple flowers. 

 

Johansen just stared. He seemed almost glued in place. Kes took advantage of this moment to look him up and down. His left leg was rigid in its brace; he wore loose navy shorts and an Under Armour singlet. 

  
“Well? Are you going to take your flowers? Sir?” 

 

“Is this some kind of a —”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How rude of me! You can’t move around so well. How about I put these in water for you?” There was enough of a gap between where Johansen stood and the door that Kes could slip through, uninvited, into his condo, which he did. He was right about luxury. This was the penthouse, and there was a huge polarized skylight over the kitchen, which cast his whole condo in a beautiful pale glossy light. Kes set the bouquet down on the counter and began to scour the kitchen drawers for scissors. 

 

“You can’t just come in here!” Johansen started, finally unfrozen. He wheeled over on his crutches, slowly. “How’d you find out where I lived?” 

 

“I told you, I’m just delivering flowers. It’s a get-well present. Don’t you want them?” 

 

Johansen had gone silent again. 

 

“I mean, aren’t they nice?” Kes had unwrapped the bouquet and the stems were now loose on the counter. He grabbed a blush-coloured rose and thrust it into Johansen’s face. 

 

“This is weird, dude,” Johansen said, batting the flower away. 

 

“It’s a peace offering.”  
  
“Are you serious?” 

 

“They don’t call me ‘Captain Serious’ for nothing.”

 

“They don’t — but you aren’t —” 

 

Kes found a water pitcher, a suitable enough vessel for the flowers, and plonked them in there after trimming the stems. He filled the jug and fluffed the bouquet up attractively. Then he moved on to Johansen’s fridge, which he was pleased to see was well-stocked with beer. 

 

“I’m guessing whatever pain meds they’ve got you on aren’t contraindicated with booze,” he remarked, cracking open a Blue Moon. 

 

“Hydrocodone,” Johansen said. “Vicodin. I’m taking less than the doctor says. I’ve seen too many guys get hooked on this stuff.” He was still eyeing Kes suspiciously.

 

“As opposed to getting hooked on this stuff,” Kes said, jiggling the beer bottle. 

 

“Neither is ideal. Why did you bring me flowers?”

 

Kes shrugged. “It’s a get-well gift. I told you.” 

 

“See, to me, flowers are for condolences. So really, _I_ should be the one getting _you_ flowers.” 

 

“Oh, you’re laying it on thick with the chirps now, Joey. Hey, somebody get Fox Sports for another sound bite.” 

 

“They really forced that one, eh?” Johansen said, seeming to relax for the first time since Kes had barged into his house. 

 

“Oh, big time,” Kes said, swinging around the kitchen island to where Johansen was. He was still standing, and didn’t look comfortable. “Sit down, bud. Don’t be on that leg any longer than you have to.” 

 

Johansen chucked. “Thanks, doc.” He listened, though. He eased himself onto the huge white leather couch in his living room, as pristine as every other thing in his condo. _The maid must come at least every other day_ , Kes thought to himself. He’d retrieved another beer from Johansen’s fridge and opened it, and now he offered it to the sitting Johansen, who took it, reluctantly. 

 

“Still trying to figure this out, bro. I’ll forget the weird stalker vibes you’re giving me by just showing up at my house, for now, but what’s with the goodwill? I feel like there’s gotta be a — what do you call it —”

 

“Ulterior motive?”

 

“Yeah,” Johansen said. “That.” 

 

“Well, there is,” Kes said, settling down on the couch next to him. The crutches were resting against the ottoman; Kes thought of kicking them away, so that Johansen was completely helpless. 

 

“You must have a hard time getting in and out of your clothes with that on,” Kes continued, nodding towards the leg brace. 

 

“It’s a pain. Showering, too.”

 

“Yeah? Do you have help?”

 

“Like, getting it off?”  
  
“Getting it off, or just — getting off — whatever.”

 

“What?” 

 

Kes reached over and put his hand square on Johansen’s crotch. He had assumed, correctly, that Johansen would be going commando, and he could already feel him twitching under his palm.

 

“You said it yourself, this is a goodwill mission,” Kes said.

 

Johansen turned a thousand shades of red. It was adorable; he hadn’t figured any of it out until right up to this point. He did not, however, move away. Instead, the little twitch under Kes’s hand reared up into something bigger. Kes instinctively began to push at it with the heel of his hand. 

 

Johansen took a swig from the beer bottle, as if to steel himself. 

 

“You came here to give me a handjob?” he said, his voice a little bolder now. “Because, you know, I don’t actually have any trouble doing that myself.” 

 

He now had a discernible erection under his nylon shorts. Kes continued working his hand as well as he could, not breaking eye contact with Johansen. 

 

“Maybe not,” Kes said, “But I bet even at the best of times you aren’t limber enough to suck it yourself, are you?”  


“Now we’re talking,” Johansen said, after sucking in a breath. He kept his voice flat, but he was smiling. Kes matched his smile, and reached quickly down under Johansen’s shorts, taking his warm and now-stiff cock between his fingers. 

 

He knew Johansen would like it, all along, and it showed on his face, the gigantic grin he was failing to suppress, interrupted by syncopatic ripples of pleasure as Kes stroked the head of his cock, and pinched it with his fingers. Kes watched him close his eyes, and relax into the seat of the sofa. Then, once he saw that Johansen was somewhere else, he leaned in, as deft as possible, and grazed the head of Johansen’s cock just barely with his tongue. 

 

Johansen braced, but didn’t shrink back entirely; this was permission, so Kes wetted his lips and went for it. He wasn’t interested in being tentative. The flat of his tongue against the biggest part of Johansen’s shaft, and then all of his dick choking his throat. He sucked him, gagged on him, grabbed his balls and jerked him with a couple fingers, moving off the couch and onto the floor so he could really give it to him. It was the middle of the day and Kes had already lost his head; if he’d been touching himself he’d be coming, but he was immersed in Johansen, who was trembling underneath him. 

 

He wasn’t sure which way to go until he felt one of Johansen’s fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck, in the barest most impossible way. The finger was questioning him, suggesting, urging. It pressed down a little harder and so did Kes, wrapping his mouth around Johansen’s cock in earnest now, gaining a rhythm. His spit dripped down around Johansen’s balls and Kes moved his hand to touch him a little there, maybe to get inside; Johansen groaned. Kes liked that a lot. He liked that he was breaking him. Kes thought he might be breaking a little too, his cock huge and hard and painful in his tight shorts, but Johansen didn’t need to know that. He adjusted himself just a little, took a better stance so that he could really get Johansen’s cock at a clear angle down his throat, and let the friction do its job. 

 

“Fuck, Kes, I’m gonna —”

 

“Mmm,” Kes murmured as best he could around Johansen’s cock, and went the limit, one hand at the base of his shaft jerking him and the other with a couple fingers teasing his hole. That was Kes’s recipe and it always worked — and now he felt Johansen’s giant cock throb against his tongue, a signal that he was about to burst. Kes plunged it down his throat, and then got both those fingers in Johansen’s tender asshole in sync with his orgasm — he groaned, and sputtered, and went rigid and then jelly-like under Kes’s big arms for a few telling moments, and Kes just let him ride all those unexpected waves until he was ready to open his eyes and see him on the other side. 

 

“Uh, okay,” Johansen said, after several heaving voiceless moments, swiping some saliva off his face, clearly a little shell-shocked. “Fuck.”

 

“It’s all right,” Kes said, swallowing as gracefully as he could, from his crouched position on the floor at Johansen’s mismatched feet. “Remember? It’s a consolation prize.”

  
“Wait, what? But you’re the one who should be getting — uggh,” Johansen said, letting his head loll back on the sofa. 

 

“Yeah, exactly,” Kes said, and got up from where he was squatting. He still had an erection, but he wasn’t about to beg the man in a leg brace. 

 

“Anyway,” Kes said, overloud, pressing flat the front of his shorts. “My work here’s done, it looks like. Good luck to your boys in the Final. Hope the leg heals up all right.” He bumped his palm against Johansen’s forehead, the way he would have knocked his helmet with his glove if they were teammates on the ice. But he got a little wisp of Johansen’s hair, and touched a little of his sweat, and he felt his arousal course through him anew, and wished for just a moment he wasn’t such a stubborn fuck. 

 

“We fly out tomorrow, Johansen,” he said, though he hadn’t planned on it. “Just in case you feel like sending a thank-you card.” 

 

He wiped his mouth and let the heavy condo door slam behind him and almost just waited. Almost just flattened himself against the wall of the hallway and hoped. But he knew he was too big of an asshole, and knew it was too long of a hobble, too much of a compromise for Johansen.

 

Kes moved down the hallway to the elevator, but then heard a shuffle behind him through the closed apartment door. His ear wasn’t really trained, but it sounded a bit like a guy on crutches trying to get back to his front door in a hurry.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you all know, I am firmly convinced that the least believable part of this whole story is the notion that Ryan Kesler knows how to put flowers in a vase.


End file.
